


Learning Curve

by intrepidem



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Backstory, Death, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mags' Games, Mental Illness, Mentorship, The Capitol Sucks, Threats, Tragedy, Underaged Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidem/pseuds/intrepidem
Summary: Mags learned how to be a good mentor.Finnick learned how to be a good whore.Annie learned how to be a good victor.The Capitol learned nothing.





	1. Mags

**Author's Note:**

> Just wrote this and wanted to get it out there! let me know if you see any typos ...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mags Ohanian won the 17th Hunger Games at 18 years old by outsmarting everyone, including but not limited to the other kids in her games. Her mentor, Cecil Ambrose, winner of the 12th Hunger Games and one of only three existing Four victors at that time, told her to use her kind eyes and slight frame to make people underestimate her skill with throwing spears and talent for building traps. She was a fisherman's daughter after all, tasked with crafting nets and wiring crab pots. Her knack with weapons resulted from her being one of the first District Four volunteers to receive career training, under the table, of course. Cecil spotted her during a guest lecture at her trade school in the spring of her 8th year when she was 16, the top of her class and with cutting wit, a skill for craft, and in excellent health. He began grooming her in private, teaching her everything he knew to teach from his experience. Her mother had became ill a year previous and her younger brothers would have no one to turn to besides their father, a burly captain with a strong affinity for alcohol, to raise them if the two women of the house were dead as doornails. Mags had faith, though, if she volunteered her last year of reaping age, when she was at her strongest and most capable, she would be able to save her family with all the riches and medicines the Capitol could offer. Cecil had told her as much. 

 

She spent the first few days of her games laying low, hiding in the thick shrubbery that covered the arena like a fungus. She was very nicely shrouded, camouflaged with some mud she had splattered on her cheeks and limbs to give her the upper hand. She would wait for the perfect moment to strike, quiet and still like Mrs. Rainey's cat she sometimes played with when the old woman asked for her help around the house. She listen for their footsteps, their panting, their rustling to approach, and keep an eye out for turned back and a clear line to the kidney or brain stem. 

 

This system held up for a while, before she gathered enough resources to start building and camafloucging her glorious net traps. They worked like a charm. From that point on, she didn't have to be as patient, striking down the starved and dehydrated kids who found themselves unfortunate enough to be scooped up and slaughtered by the the Four girl.  

 

On the seventh day of the games, with 12 children dead, she came across a strain of wild berries that looked somewhat suspicious in her path. Deciding to hedge her bets, she baited the boy from District Five to eat them first, letting him chase her for a few meters or so before aiming a knife for his leg instead of his jugular, careful to leave a bountiful branch of those berries in the wake of her escape. She ran until she was out of sight and hid, waiting with bated breath for the next cannon, holding tight onto her gut instinct that something was amiss, hoping that she had not simply provided the enemy with her own resources. She was not disappointed when, ten minutes later, the deafening cannon sounded. Not quite certain, she retraced her steps and find the 5 boy in a puddle of blue vomit, blood soaking from his upper thigh. 

 

His name was Duncan, the thought came to her head out of nowhere. He was 16 years old, and she suddenly recalled the small smile he gave her in the training center, brief, polite, absolutely terrified.

 

Unsettled by the memory, a burst of humanity in a godless place, Mags retrieved the knife from the dead tribute's thigh. She took the time to juice the poison berries into the glass bottle she received from a parachute that had been filled with drinking water, but had long since been emptied, using it to dip her throwing knives in. 

 

After that, she was spectacularly efficient.

 

During her victory tour, most of the dishes served at the fancies dinners and luncheons involved a berry of some sort. It was mostly the desserts, anyway, but they never ceased to take her off guard, the many ways the Capitol could hold this aspect of her games over her head. From blueberry muffins to boysenberry pie to cranberry sauce, each one was a stark reminder of her clever idea to poison a bunch of fellow children. She wanted to vomit like Duncan had at the sight of the sweet raspberry pie filling oozing out on her plate like gore. 

 

Mags' was an especially well-received victory amongst her district, with dozens of her fellow Four citizens screaming her name during their stop home on the tour. They even went the extra mile to hold a non-Capitol affiliated reception after all the parading was done, and no berries were in sight at the dinner table. Just catfish and she-crab soup, bread and butter, collard greens, and a very large chocolate cake. It just seemed like a fancy dinner in four, no bright fluorescent colors or unfamiliar spices and tangs, just all things she had missed about home cuisine. The people of Four could not begin to understand how much she appreciated this particular selection, like a breath of fresh air. Finally, she felt like she was back in familiar territory.

 

The new house in the victors village thrilled her four little brothers, who had never even contemplated having a room all to themselves. Her mother started taking the Capitol medicines prescribed by their new family physician who would fly in via hovercraft at their beck and call. Mags didn't know what to do with all the riches she had been rewarded for killing all those kids. Her father, however, drowned in the opportunities, drinking himself to death with expensive Capitol liquor two months into their new lives as top class Four citizens. The hovercraft had not been fast enough to take him to a more sophisticated hospital than the one in Four, and the alcohol poisoning got the better of him shortly after the vomiting began. Mags, the unofficial house nurse who was used to tending to their mother, knew precisely when it was too late for him. It was almost as if it was expected she be the one present when her father died, what with it being her area of expertise. She watched the life seep out of his body and did not weep, which shook her more than anything.

 

On the flip side, with her mother's physical health fast on the rise, raising the youngest of the Ohanian boys did not fall primarily on Mags, burdened beyond imagination at this time. 

 

As the first female victor of her district, Mags began mentoring immediately following her victory. Even if she weren't the only girl, automatically expected to take up the position of mentoring the female tributes with Cecil as her counterpart and, strangest of all, her equal, the strategy and cunning displayed in her games won her a spot as one of the most resourceful and respected victors Four had to offer in regard to mentorship. 

 

Her first girl was named Amelia McGuff, a volunteer like herself, 18 and proud and a bit mercurial. She was green eyed and blonde haired, and had a wide face with thin lips and a sharp nose. She was athletic, but that can get you only so far in the games, Mags had learned. She died in the bloodbath at the cornucopia, confident with her spear in hand, scouting for food and other resources and never looking behind her before the District One boy bludgeoned her skull with a metal baton. Mags, though she hadn't been particularly attached to the girl, did not take her death well, storming out of the mentor central with a pale, fixed expression.

 

Amelia hadn't even been given a chance. She had been taken out of the race before she could even stretch her legs. And Mags was completely unable to do anything about it, no opportunity to strategize or assist. 

 

Unaccustomed to failure after a year of utter triumph, Mags paced in the lounge outside the central, getting glimpses of the passerby mentors from Twelve or Eight or Eleven watching her as they fixed themselves a drink or wandered despondently, starkly lacking any hope for their worse-off districts and their pathetic tributes. 

 

Later that night, when the arena had settled into a restless sleep and nobody's tribute was in immediate danger, Cecil found Mags stirring a tea that had gone quite cold.

 

"Sampson is safe, hiding in a cave for the night, teamed up with 3 and the girl from 6." He says gruffly, clinically, sitting down on the couch next to the 19 year old mentor. "In case you were interested."

 

It takes a while before Mags speaks. 

 

"Glad to hear one of our tributes was smart enough to make it past the first twenty seconds." She says in reply, taking a sip from the mug in her hands and swallowing hard around the room temperature tea. 

 

"That's not fair, lass." He admonished, in the way Cecil does that is far from gentle but also kind and benevolent. "Not everyone can be a Mags Ohanian, you know."

 

"I don't need a backhanded compliment," Mags snapped. "I need a tribute who isn't so cocky she robs me of the opportunity to make her into something meaningful."

 

"Who said anything about the games being meaningful?" 

 

Cecil comes back at her so quick that Mags is unable to find a decent response, she's just staring with her hollow brown eyes right into her mentor's face. 

 

"You are young, Magdalene." He leveled. "And inexperienced. This is all new to you, so you can't expect such positive results from your first go around. Sure, Amelia's death happened sooner than we had hoped, but there's no controlling things like that." 

 

Mags stared at her shoes, but Cecil poked the center of her chest and that got her attention back to him, begrudgingly at that.

 

"As a mentor, it's your job to make sure your tribute has as many tools as they can to get through until the end of this arena. No more. No less. They don't need your hope, or your faith, and they certainly don't need your frustration."

 

He breathed in deeply,

 

"Trust me when I say this: the only way you will survive this post is if you understand, right here and now, that there is next to nothing you can do about when and how people choose to be dead."

 

Cecil's arms are already poised for action when Mags lurches into his chest, her tears soaking through his silk shirt.

 

-

 

During the next 43 years, Mags would begin to raise her district's profile as far as the games are concerned ten fold, raising their stats to astronomical heights compared to what they were before her victory, to near Career status. Within the first two decades, she had single handedly brought home five victors, and had triple more final eights to her name.  

 

On the other side of this coin, of course, lie all the kids who Mags couldn't save, sweet and rude and naive and scared and hopeful children, and as Mags got older they all got younger and younger. She realized fairly quickly that there was no need to disenchant them from the hope that they were going to be the one to make it out alive, especially the ones she didn't have that gut feeling about. It would be doing them even more of a disservice to let them in on the meaninglessness of their inevitable deaths. Truth was always going to be a hard pill to swallow. 

 

There were some very smart ones, however. Ones who she had a gut feeling about and the gut feeling was wrong. Those were the ones that hurt the most. Feeding lies to a dimwitted tribute about hope and perseverance would get easier over time. But watching that hope die out during the training process hurt every time. The cleverest ones knew how to play to the audience, making her job of acquiring sponsors for them a walk in the park. The dumbest ones didn't try at all.

 

Four days before the arena, the male tribute from the 45th games asked her in a rather pointed and petulant manner, in what instance would brains trump pure, physical brawn in an arena meant for killing. 

 

"If you're not smart, you're dead." She had said very matter of factly, "Any big, bad career from One could snap a preteens neck as easily as he could be torn apart by mutts, or poisoned, or drown, or starve to death." 

 

Mags was vaguely aware she was spitting at the poor boy who'd volunteered to die for something he had no way of fully comprehending, but her point still had to be made. 

 

"A smart tribute is one who looks at the games objectively, like, say, a game maker would." She continued, her eyes boring into his meaningfully. "Never forget that you're nothing more than Capitol entertainment, and maybe you'll have a chance at sticking out during the recap.''

 

The one tribute who truly embodied this advice was the 65th's Finnick Odair, the golden boy with the trident which she worked very hard to get to him. Mags had been mentoring boys as well as girls for years at this point, as the 36th's Catarina Degas, Mags' third victor, had to take over Jet Marsalis' post so he could easily attend to other business concerning the Capitol and it's wealthiest, most notable citizens. 

 

Finnick, a slightly-too-thin, slightly-too-short fourteen year old who was unlucky enough to not have a strong, 18 year old volunteer swoop in to take his spot as this year's male tribute, was a sharp and charismatic little son of a bitch, too pretty for his own good, and too good to be so devilishly pretty. By the time he had his first interview with Caesar Flickerman, the spunky new host up and coming in primetime Capitol media, dozens of sponsors had started ringing Mags to offer money, gifts and their undying love to her boy. This time around, that gut feeling about her tribute's potential success was mingled with an unmistakeable tinge of uneasiness. As Finnick smiled and charmed his way into Capitol hearts, Mags took on the role of damage control, double and triple checking the clauses and laws surrounding the age of consent in tandem with the things those lucky victors get up to in the Capitol behind closed, lock-and-keyed doors. She had already been hearing Finnick's name from that side of the pond, even before he was their 65th victor, and things were starting to slip through her fingers.

 

This year's victory tour felt nothing but endless to Mags. Their first stop in District 12 was as stale and cold as it always was, and always would be. A thousand empty, starving faces stared emotionlessly at her boy, and she watched him struggle to round up their favor during his speech just like he would with the Capitol crowds, promptly falling flat on his face. Regardless of which District they were in, these speeches were always difficult. Mags was grateful he at least hadn't been responsible for either of the 12 tributes deaths, as both male and female had already been expended by the time the bloodbath was over. 

 

Backstage, Mags could smell the approach of the sole remaining 12 victor before he had the chance to gander at his pitiful form: red-rimmed, sleepless eyes hazy with the heinous concoction he called booze swishing around in his flask, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his equilibrium completely done for.

 

"Haymitch," She greeted with her sweetest, most affectionate smile. "Lovely to see you made it to your post this time around, albeit after your reception speech should have taken place."

 

"What can I say?" He hiccuped, grinning a sardonic grin, "Always gotta keep Snow on his toes."

 

"Oh, you know it's been years since the president has bothered to watch the 12 broadcast," Mags comforted, and Haymitch giggled this stifled little drunken burst of air.

 

"Oh, I'm very aware," He patted her on the shoulder, unintentionally forceful due to inebriation. "I'll have you know I worked hard to make it that way."

 

Taking a swig from his dull silver flask, he peeked on stage to take a look at the glowing District 4 victor, only barely tripping over his words as he delivered the speech written on cue cards by his escort, Polonius.

 

"I will say, you've outdone yourself this year, Mrs. Ohanian." Haymitch congratulated her, raising his drink in a perfunctory gesture. "14 years old, that's a record, idn't it? You must be thrilled with your accomplishment." 

 

"Thrilled is one word for it," She replied, an edge of darkness stricken on her face, a look of warning. Haymitch saw the shift, and backed off promptly, even taking a few steps back, sucking down the last few drops of liquor in his flask before dropping it on the ground.

 

"May the odds be ever in his favor!" He threw his hands up in mock-cheer, and, with a slight shake of his head, Haymitch had disappeared in the throws and District 12 once again.

 

Back in the Capitol, things resumed as expected. In one of Finnick's post-games interviews, with Caesar expertly prodding and poking in just the right ways, Mags heard her own words slip from her golden boys mouth.

 

"So, Finnick," Caesar grinned, "How does it feel to be the youngest ever to be crowned in the entire history of the Hunger Games?" 

 

Cue uproarious applause from the Capitol audience, with Finn smiling an unabashed smile. 

 

"It feels great, Caesar. Like I'm on top of the world. Also has me wondering if any thirteen or twelve year olds are gunning to take my spot." 

 

Chuckles, with some whistling can be heard as response, with the usual cheering and fawning from women and men double, triple his age.

 

"Ho-ho, after one charge with your trident, you could surely wipe away the competition!" 

 

The audience laughed, and Caesar laughed, and Finnick laughed but his wasn't honest, Mags could tell by looking at his eyes, and how it didn't reach them.

 

"Your cleverness was truly remarkable in your games, was it not, folks?"

 

More cheering. Mags wondered if the audience ever got tired of their endless noisemaking.

 

"Always so many steps ahead of the other tributes. Hell, you're smarter than most of the 18 year olds I've interviewed!" Flickerman passed along the compliment easily, scoring cheers and laughs, and Finnick takes it all in stride, like they're good friends.

 

"Well, my mentor, Mags Ohanian, she told me if you're not smart, you're dead." Finnick smiles, but it's quieter this time, the audience at a rare standstill.

 

"A point well-made, and well-proved!" Flickerman agrees, "So, Finnick, tell me: does a handsome and successful guy like you have anyone special waiting out there tonight?"

 

Earlier that day, before the interview, Finnick received a wax sealed envelope from President Snow detailing a time, place, and name. Xenala Fawn, an incredibly wealthy Capitol stockholder, was the name, and the time was tonight at 8pm, the place being her mansion in West Florence.

 

She tried to argue, tried to fight for him. _He's just fourteen. Just a boy. It's not within the law._ She was foolish for believing she could influence the situation.

 

Mags was expected to brief Finnick on what the engagement with Miss Xenala would entail, highlighting the thinly veiled consequences in the event of his refusal. 

 

Mags thought watching her tributes realize they were going to die was the worst it could be. She was foolish for believing that, too.

 

It didn't take very much explaining at all until the gravity of the situation dawned on the boy. Mags looked on as a sick, pale, betrayed hue colored his cursedly beautiful features, and he wouldn't make eye contact. She was somewhat grateful for that, not sure if she could meet his either. Mags decided to quiet, as it was clear he had enough explaining, understanding his purpose in Snow's games in an entirely new light. After all, he was a smart boy.

 

_If you're not smart, you're dead._

Mags wanted to guffaw as much as she wanted to revisit her lunch.

 

If you're lucky, you're not very smart.

 

 

 


	2. Finnick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god this chapter got to be a lot. I had so many more ideas than I anticipated. Oof. I might go in and adjust this chapter later, but I needed to stop myself from adding and adding.
> 
> Warnings for depictions of rape and homophobia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finnick Odair was the youngest of six children. He had three older sisters and two older brothers, with an additional two nieces and a nephew. His father was a shrimp boat captain, his mother a crew member on the District ferry.  His closest brother, nineteen year old Percival, and he would often help haul in the traps and clean the vessel as their old man got older, losing the strength and stamina to maintain the work on his own but not having sufficient funds to retire, being the breadwinner of the family. 

 

The oldest Odair sibling, Dana, was on leave from the hospital taking care of her newborn Jackson. She was also tasked husband Seamus at the same time, who had been injured in a canning factory accident two weeks after his first son's birth. Naturally, there wouldn't be any money coming from her end for a while, her hands full of more immediate familial obligations. 

 

The second oldest, Maddock jr., had been disowned by their father for being a queer, left with no other choice than to live in the shanty town southeast of the pier, so clearly he was doing nothing to contribute either. Finnick hadn't seen or heard any word from his oldest brother in over five years, and as such he had been cast out of his daily recollection. 

 

The third oldest, Nancy, was a front desk receptionist at the less fancy District Four hotel, The Schooner Inn, and got a decently consistent wage, able to successfully pull her weight while she continued to live at home, using the room her and Dana used to share before she and her family moved into the conveniently vacant two bedroom shack right next door. That being said, she sometimes ended up having to share it again with their unpredictable younger sister.

 

That sister, Shania, was the fourth oldest. She was beautiful and wild, and had been working as an exotic dancer under their parents noses for many years, keeping up appearances and telling this and that lie about where the envelopes of cash that helped pay their mortgage were coming from. The father of her little girl, a tired older man named Cyril, rented a house up north that Shania flipped back and forth to and from. Regardless of her mother's ever changing living situation, little Shelly stayed at the Odair house on the coast, with her uncle Finn as her primary caretaker and playmate. 

 

Shelly's crib was placed in Finnick's room in the attic. He had jumped for the opportunity to stop having to share that tiny bedroom with the adult Percy while he went through puberty. He gladly took on the responsibility of his niece who could easily be placed in Dana's house anytime to play with her daughter Aurora, when he needed some time to himself. 

 

When Finnick was reaped for the 65th Hunger Games, Shelly's crib was moved into Nancy's room, and Shania started sleeping in the attic on her nights home instead of Nancy's. It was almost as if he had already died in his games.

 

Be that as it may, his mother wept tears of joy when she saw him again during his victory tour. His brother hugged him, his sisters kissed him, and his father shook his hand. While all of the commotion went on, his eyes stayed glued on the two year old Shelly toddling towards him excitedly, babbling a mixture of _uncle_ and _finnie_. His smile spread like fire and he scooped her into his arms with a huff, the little girl seemingly so much bigger and heavier than she had been not even a month ago. He didn't let go of her until he absolutely had to, tucking her into bed for the night. Not in the attic, however, nor in Nancy's room, but in her own bedroom inside of the mansion in the Victor's village.

 

Being the youngest Odair sibling, Finnick never expected to become the breadwinner of the family, and certainly not at 14 years old. His father, stubborn in his ways, stayed dutifully busy on the shrimper, exhausting his old bones day in and out instead of relaxing with the security of his youngest son's hefty pension. His mother did retire, though, taking up gardening and planting herbs and vegetables in their spacious backyard.

 

Shania was able to stop handing in those envelopes with those big, big bills. She also stopped seeing Cyril altogether. Finnick felt the palpable relief that spread through his family once she finally burned that bridge. No one spoke about why, but Finnick would later understand very well the terms of his sister's engagement with the tired old man who lived up north.

 

There was a brief period of time shortly after Finnick's games where he felt at peace with the world. Of course, there was always the vivid nightmares which haunted him most nights, making him grateful for the first time that he now no longer shared a room with his niece. Sometimes he would catch Percy or Nancy giving him a particular look, like all they saw when they looked at him was a child-killer. Albeit, he was a child-killer, but they were forgetting that he was a child, too, their baby brother, in fact. Few and far in between these looks were. Who knows, maybe it was all just in his head, seeing himself slaughtering the other tributes when he looked his family members in the eye, watching phantom blood dripping as their skulls cracked, bodies going rigid as he shoved his trident through their bellies with a sickening squelch.

 

There were some times where his father wouldn't look at him, proud as ever, stubborn to maintain an equilibrium of power in the household. The only way to do that, the victor supposed, was by ignoring him occasionally, pretending he'd died in his games, pretending the beautiful house they lived in wasn't because Finnick sacrificed 23 lives, became a murderer, cycled from nightmare to nightmare to give it to them. Every now and then, though, he and his father had a brief exchange about low tide or trap-setting that would remind him of how it used to be, and he would feel less like he was stranded at sea.  

 

Despite everything, he was adjusting to life in the village quite well, with the Odair family now safe and well-off for the first time in decades, maybe ever. Money had always been tight in the household, scrambling to pay the bills for water and electricity, reworking the budget when they didn't have enough food, going without medicines and replacing them with home remedies and prayers when the little ones got sick. Now they had more money then they knew what to do with.

 

Most of his siblings kept their jobs for two reasons: financial independence (even though Finnick was already covering their living expenses) and as a means of having something to do. Finnick found himself not needing a job, at a loss for what a victor could possibly work as, and not having any friends that didn't see him as anything more than a pretty boy child-killer. Most of the time he just wandered around the mansion. He considered the possibility of knocking on the door across the way to give Mags a visit, but he thought better of it. She would only serve to remind him of the few weeks of his life he already couldn't get out of his head. 

 

Finnick's mother was home most days, when she wasn't shopping or visiting old friends that she hadn't had the time to connect with before Finnick's victory allowed her all the time in the world. The two of them talked small and shared the same air while she kept busy cooking and cleaning. Sometimes he helped her with the heavy lifting out in the garden. 

 

"Would you like me to make you some tea, dear? I've got a pot of water on." She said to him on a particularly bad day, the wind and rain howling past the beautiful stained glass windows of their dining room. 

 

This weather eerily reminded him of the third night of his games, when a hot, acid rain hit the arena that he barely found shelter from before it would have been too late. Today, Finnick was sitting at the dining room table with nothing behind his eyes, and had been that way for a disconcerting amount of time. When she spoke, though, he snapped out of it, turning towards her and unclenching his white fists, setting them in his lap.

 

"Sure," He said after a while, as if it took him twice as long to hear the question. "Thank you."

 

"Of course," She said, her tight, sweet expression nothing short of suspicious, or possibly just concerned. 

 

Within minutes, there was a piping hot mug of chamomile tea heading his way, Mrs. Odair treading very carefully so it wouldn't spill and stain their immaculate, lush carpet. When she reached the dining room, she found him staring out of the ocean blue-green stain in the window, stock still and wistful. With the smallest smile, she approached and reached for his shoulder. 

 

Finnick whipped around to face his attacker with a cry, arms swinging out defensively. This action knocked the mug right out of the woman's hands, sending it crashing to the ground at their feet, the tope ceramic shattering on impact. The scalding tea splashed onto the both of them, but Finnick didn't feel any pain. He just stood there, agape, panting, trembling, taking in his surroundings, his mother's face.

 

"Oh, Finnick!" She exclaimed, sounding as if he was eight years old and had tripped and spilled a bucket of bait all over the dock.

 

Like it was just a silly little accident. 

 

He wrapped his arms around himself, brows knitted. 

 

"I'm sorry, I—"

 

But he couldn't think of anything to say past that.

 

As his mother gathered a broom and dust pan to clean up the mess, Finnick fled up to his big, spacious room and locked the door securely behind him. 

 

-

 

Three years later, Finnick broke. 

 

At 17 he was old enough to be publicly viewed as a slut but too young to seem like a real victor. He hadn’t been back to Four in months, too busy entertaining client after client after client, with the occasional press opportunity sprinkled in for effect. It was only ever dumb little things like talk shows or commercials, just enough things to occupy his time in order to make sure he wouldn’t get the chance to breathe. 

 

Graced with a litany of opportunities to practice, he had since perfected his playboy persona, sweet like honey and dangerous in a sexy way and not in an arena way. It was an act that the Capitol desperately needed him to uphold, what with him being the hottest thing of the season for multiple consecutive seasons.  

 

The occasional client here and there for the first two years was strenuous enough, each encounter tinged with the secrecy and guilt attributed to acquiring the golden boy under the table. They all did their best to keep their nights with him out of the spotlight. When he turned 16, however, things took a complete turn. His clients were now all but parading him around the Capitol, and all the main news outlets were raving about his wild love affairs, ruminating about his sexual prowess on late night television, following him around with cameras and microphones asking him questions about his faithfulness, delving into his flings with this or that capitolite, prodding him about his sexual orientation. Finnick smiled and charmed his way through it, like he smiled and charmed his way through everything, lying right through his teeth, sickeningly sweet, full of cheese and oozing sex. 

 

Finnick was so tired of the sex. He was tired of pretending to enjoy it, easy and smooth and over-enthusiastic, his clients starving for his love and attention like District 12 starved for food. And he gave it to them in full, the women who hadn't been touched by their husbands in years desperate for him to ravage them, the men who wanted to kiss him and suck him and fuck him and mark him with their dominion, and everyone in between. They were all starting to blur together, anyway, the alcohol and drugs doing what they do best when his date for the night was kind enough to let him indulge in them, helping him get through it a little easier, forget a little more. 

 

There was one night that stuck out, though. It was four weeks after the 68th Hunger Games, the winner being District 7's Johanna Mason, a 17 year old girl with an axe and a coarse personality. Finnick was disgusted with her as much as he envied her, how she would spit in the face of the Capitol for their wretched system of government and fucked-up rituals. 

 

The envelope he had received 24 hours before detailed that this engagement would take place in District One. While it wasn't impossible for the citizens of a career district to be able to afford a victor's exorbitant price tag, it was incredibly uncommon. He had only been sent to a district about two or three times, and it was usually because he was being sold to a Capitol citizen who was away on business or vacation. This would not be the case this time, however.

 

When the train arrived, he was led by his escort Polonius to an estate just outside of the part of town that most resembled the Capitol, with tall buildings and fancy shops on every corner, a drowning cityscape with a justice building and reaping square dead-center, a reminder that even the privileged children of One aren't safe from the games.

 

Walking into the District One mansion, he made the assumption that he may as well have been wearing a bow on his head. There was a party taking place, or there had been one going on, as decorations and festivities littered the expanse of the main hall. He was approached by a boy around his age, with dark hair and blue eyes, broad, tall, and fearsome looking. A career trainee, no doubt about it. Finnick supposed he must be some kind of birthday present.

 

"Hello, Finnick Odair," The boy said stiffly, a disposition Finnick cropped up to be due to nerves, intimidated by the presence of someone so illustrious. 

 

"Charmed, I'm sure," Finnick drawled, eyes twinkling with a spark of irony, "And you must be Prentiss." He remembered this first name from the envelope, too foggy on the surname go at it with confidence. "What an absolute pleasure to meet you." 

 

"Actually, Prentiss is downstairs, waiting with the rest of the guys." The boy corrected, crystal eyes burning a hole in his. "I'm just here to prep you before we head down there."

 

Uneasiness began to creep in the pit of the victor's stomach.

 

"Oh?" He said, quirking a brow, grinning like a crazy person because this boy was giving him nothing but a cold, dead air and it was starting to unsettle him. "Well, then what are we waiting for?"

 

The boy nodded, retrieving a tie from the pocket of his jacket, indicating for Finnick to turn around. He did, without hesitation, though the version of him that spent a week and a half in an arena was screaming in protest. 

 

"So what's with all the festivities?" He asked, casual, like this boy was his friend even though that couldn't be farther from the truth.

 

"Graduation party." The boy replied, gruff, placing the blindfold around the victor's eyes in a not very gentle manner. "We just graduated from the academy this spring."

 

"Seems like I missed out on all the fun." Finnick pouted, being forcibly turned around with rough hands and led haphazardly throughout the room. 

 

"The fun is about to begin. Trust me."

 

Finnick is led down a flight of stairs, half convinced he'll trip and break his neck, almost hoping he would, figuring that fate would be preferable to whatever was waiting for him on the other side of this blindfold.

 

Suddenly, they halted. He was forcibly pushed to his knees after a sudden, strong voice commanded the boy leading him to do so. Immediately, the blind fold was ripped off his face. Blinking, vision bleary and unfocused, he could barely make out what seemed to be a portrait in front of him. It was of a red-haired girl with bold features and a deadly look in her eyes. Immediately, Finnick recognized the face. It was the District One female tribute from the 65th Hunger Games, Divine Whitelock.

 

This kill had been a total fluke, fueled by adrenaline and sheer luck. The girl had stalked him in the night, stealthy and unbelievably quiet. If it hadn't been for the fact that Finnick was unable to get to sleep that night, not unlike most nights in the arena, he wouldn't have lived to face her likeness right now, in a basement surrounded by eight boys who looked like they wanted vengeance against his quick reflexes and expensive trident. 

 

"My sister would have made the perfect victor," A voice, the one in command, crept up behind him, until he made himself seen, staring daggers into the golden boy on his knees beneath him. "Strong, confident, fearless. Unafraid to stand up for what was right. She would have been a glorious leader. But you took that away from her." 

 

Finnick stared, frozen, as the boy with red hair and something much worse than deadly in his eyes squatted down so they were face to face. "You. The District Four whore, a pathetic excuse for a victor. Winning out based on nothing but your looks. You make me sick."

 

Prentiss then spat on him, and Finnick shut his eyes, breathed in and out.

 

"This is for my sister." Was the last thing he heard before a hailstorm of boots commenced, shoving into the small of his back, his side, his belly, and he keeled over and curled up on the ground, protecting himself from the blows despite the futility of it. He briefly considered whether or not he should act like he was enjoying being kicked to a pulp, but figured that would be inappropriate given the circumstances. 

 

Once they were finished beating his body, they tore off his clothes and took turns fucking him, no prep, one after the other after the other after the other. They told him to scream, and he did, loudly and a lot, begging them to stop, swimming in hysterics. It occurred to him suddenly that this was his first time being raped that he didn't have to pretend to like. He wanted to laugh but then he started crying because that shouldn't be a good thing, and it definitely wasn't.

 

Back in the Capitol, it was typical to be graced with a swarming sea of augmented faces made to be artificially youthful and coming in every color of the rainbow, all stretched in hideous pleasure above or below him. That night, all he saw were the faces of eight boys, each of which were only a little bit older than him, all of which could have just as easily been him, their frighteningly human features twisted into an evil far beyond their years. 

 

He couldn't get those faces out of his head, not for a long time. 

 

When his next visit to Four came around, he felt like a stranger in his own home. He felt like he was a ghost wandering the halls, unwelcome and utterly uninvolved. His family simply didn't know how to approach him anymore, thrown off by the version of him they saw on television compared to the one they had raised. 

 

One night during the hot summer, Nancy, ever the optimist, had insisted on having a nice family dinner. They ended up gathering the whole Odair clan to the mansion's dining room table frequently underutilized. In truth, it was large enough for a party of thirty, not likely to be used at that capacity, at least not in Finnick's ideal world. There were only so many more potential Odair children that he could handle being made into collateral.

 

Nancy had made a big pot of hearty stew, using the home grown vegetables their mother slaved over growing during the spring previous. Overexcited, five year old Shelly reached for her spoon to begin ladling the stew into her mouth, but Nancy cleared her throat and Shania took the utensil from her daughter's tiny hand. 

 

"Poppa, say grace for us so we can dig in, would you?" Nancy prompted, an expectant look on her face, rubbing her hands together.

 

Their father didn't lift his eyes from his plate. 

 

"I will not call to the Lord with that lowlife sitting at the head of our table." 

 

Then he picked up his fork and began eating his stew.

 

Finnick had perked up, taking a good look at the man who had spent this past week he's been home looking right through him, actively ignoring his existence instead of the usual passive disregard. He felt the eyes of his siblings on him, and he glanced at Nancy, who was at a loss for words. 

 

"You have something you want to share, Pop?" Finnick inquired, cocking his head to the side, taking on the grunt of the issue. 

 

"Don't you call me that, boy." Pop spat, meeting the victor's eyes for the first time in what felt like ages. "You are no son of mine."

 

"Maddock—" their mother tried to stop him, but Finnick was right on top of her intervention.

 

"No, Ma, let him speak. I wanna hear what he has to say." 

 

The room went to a standstill, quiet save for the babbling of Dana's newest baby, eight month old Rory. 

 

"Oh, okay. I see. I see now." Finnick nodded, chuckling humorlessly.

 

The people around the table were staring at him like he was crazy, but what else was new? 

 

"I mean, it's all my fault, right? Because I'm the one that went to hell and back to give you this house, this food, all these riches. I'm the bad guy because I'm away at the Capitol all the time, right? I'm the bad guy because I get to get away from this goddamn suffocating house and don't come back for months, but guess who's got a huge mansion, a nice little garden, a room for every baby you could ever dream of popping out, everything you could ever ask for, and you get to judge me for how I live my life?"

 

"Christ Almighty," Was Poppa's curse before he was out of his chair, heading towards the door, but not before Finnick was there, blocking his path.

 

"Leaving so soon, Pop? 'Cause I was just getting started. At least take the time to finish your meal, cause this might take a while. In fact, everyone, eat up! Nothing better than some dinner theatre!"

 

Poppa steeled himself before meeting his son's eyes, gritting his teeth, and through them he uttered his next words.

 

"You get out of my way, you dirty little faggot."

 

In a burst of clarity, Finnick remembered his oldest brother and the pang of guilt for Maddock's jr.'s vast misfortune was trumped by a white hot rage. Quicker than lightning, Finnick had pinned his father's back against the wall, the man's old bones quaking under such brute force. Screams are heard, his mother and his sisters, and he felt Percy's hands gripping him, pulling him off of the stunned and pale Maddock sr.

 

"I gave you everything!" Finnick bellowed, and Percy pulled him back, doing his best to shush his little brother's outburst, the shrill sound of babies crying cacophonous in the background. "Everything I do, I do for you! _Everything_ I do!"

 

That same night, he packed his bags and stormed to the front door of the mansion across the way. Mags answered within minutes and concern colored her face immediately upon opening the door. One look at his bags and the lost expression on his face and something must have clicked. Her mouth pulled into a resigned line.

 

"Come on inside," She invited, gesturing with a wave. "It's too hot to be hanging around out in the open like you are."

 

She had no idea how right she was.

 

 

 


	3. Annie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> behold the longest chapter! i think it's longer than mags and finnick's combined. when i first started writing annie, i was worried i wouldn't have much to say but i was wroooong~ 
> 
> enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Annie Cresta was 13 when her grandmother died, making her an orphan for the second time in her life. The doctors said the old woman died from natural causes, but Annie blamed it on the kidney disease that Mommaw refused to take medication for. They had been wrangling with the subject for the past year and a half once Annie noticed her nail beds starting to yellow and how she wasn't able to get out of bed some days, but Mommaw always won those arguments, like she won all of their arguments, more stubborn than a mule. She was always so flippant about her declining health and never stopped denying her own age and imminent mortality. Annie, on the other hand, couldn't bring herself to deny what was going on. She simply couldn't imagine what her life would be like without the old woman nagging on her day in and day out. Soon enough, she didn't have to imagine.

 

Annie's birth mother had killed herself when she was only two years old, prompting her  father to run off into the night, never to be seen again by the Cresta girls. If it weren't for Ernestine Cresta, a fierce but large-hearted woman of 68 years, Annie would have been left to fight for scraps at the Four orphanage and eventually factored into the institution they saw fit, whether that be a labor force, a prostitution ring, or, even worse, a Career training academy. Either way, she would have been made into something hard as nails and wonderfully expendable. Ernestine would have never let that happen to her own granddaughter, no matter how unequipped she was to care for such a tiny and helpless thing, and at her age. 

 

Consequently, Annie was left in her haphazard guise for the next eleven years. The senior Cresta did her best to work past the great trials of raising this baby girl, whose eyes and smile were a spitting image of her first and only child. There were some instances where Ernestine couldn't bring herself to look at Annie, swept up in her grief and a horrible sense of deja-vu, grappling with the loss. Annie has no memory of life before her grandmother became her primary care giver, so the rough patch they went through at the beginning since became completely moot to their relationship. And it was a good one, too. Sure, sometimes Mommaw got short with her when she burnt their dinner or neglected to pick up her room, but they were as happy together as a real mother and daughter would have been.

 

With Mommaw too old and worn to fit right in to the workforce, the two of them had to cut their losses and decided to make a living out of crafting jewelry from sea glass and the shells that washed up on the shore near their home. Annie picked up this particular trade from her grandmother quickly, improving her skills in leaps and bounds. She would often go on runs to collect their supplies. Later on, she would use her more nimble and steady fingers to help Mommaw with the small stuff. Then, Annie would brush her wild, brunette hair and put on her reaping dress to go sell to the Capitol citizens who vacationed in District Four, charging more money than she had ever dreamed of spending at one time. Sometimes the posh, strange-looking people of the Capitol would kick her aside, making it very clear to Annie that they would rather eat sand than associate with some dirty Four beggar. More often than not, though, they were excited by the novelty, crooning over the necklaces and earrings she and her grandmother spent virtually no time and even less money making.

 

That's how they got by until Annie was old enough to work at the hotels that were a hop and a skip away from their quaint little shack by the shore. Before she got put to work, however, her Mommaw passed, and Annie Cresta met her godmother for the first time and realized she may not have to work there after all.

 

The first time Annie walked into the home of Mags Ohanian, Mommaw's estranged best friend and her now caretaker, she finally understood how they were able to pay the bills when vacation season was over. She had seen a few clips here and there of the veteran victor on the television in the square whenever she would walk into town. She was aware enough of her own Districts’ culture to know that her godmother was a renowned Hunger Games mentor. At first, Annie was worried Mags would groom her into being the next tribute and send her to die at the Cornucopia like she saw happen to all of those slight, skinny kids who were unfortunate enough to find themselves a part of the Games before the prime age of 18. 

 

It wasn’t a secret that Annie was mildly afraid of the senior victor. Mags seemed aware of this as she gave her the grand tour of her mansion in the Victor’s Village. 

 

“There are six bedrooms besides my own. You’re welcome to choose anyone you like. They’re on the second and third floor, and two of them have a connected bath.” 

 

With her things clutched in her hand and her eyes fixed on the floor, Annie nodded mutely. She climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, careful not to drop a single belonging along the way and pretending that she didn’t feel Mags’ watchful eyes on her back as she did.

 

She passed by two rooms, one of which was painted lavender and neat but clearly lived in. Just as she was deciding it would be best to stay on the third floor, she stumbled across the door directly beside Mags’ own. It was a nursery, with pale yellow walls and a cream crib in the center, a delicate old mobile tinkling above it, little lions and tigers dangling trepidatiously along the spokes. She also noticed that there were several brown cardboard boxes all lined against the far edge of the wall collecting dust, forgotten. Whoever this room had belonged to, it was clear that no one had stepped foot in it for a long time. Annie did, however, tiptoeing in as if not to disturb the spirits that lurked in the shadows. She took note of the empty and desolate energy that seemed to emanate from every corner and seam of this tiny room in such a big, big mansion.

 

“Her name was going to be Cora.”

 

Annie startled and whipped around only to find Mags standing in the doorway, her brown eyes soft and distantly gleaming. Her mouth was slack but her brows were drawn in thought. There was a certain stillness about her that Annie found to be difficult to put a name to.

 

“What happened?” She heard herself say before she could think twice about it. She almost covered her mouth but found she wasn’t able to while her hands were still laden with her bags.

 

Annie felt herself flush when Mags looked at her next, fear curling in her gut unpleasantly, even though there was no malice in her expression, just an ancient sense of loss.

 

“She slipped through my fingers.” Mags said, hands splayed out in front of her and expression nothing short of helpless. Annie didn’t know what to make of the phrasing but still understood her meaning, and didn’t dare to press the matter any further. “Yellow is my favorite color.” Mags continued somewhat absently, referring to the walls with a vague flick of her wrist.

 

“Mine’s blue.” Annie said, unsure how else to respond. “Sky blue.”

 

Mags seemed to contemplate this for a long time before, “We can buy blue paint tomorrow.”  She then declared, and with a warm smile she took one of the bags from Annie’s arms and sighed, let her shoulders relax. “Follow me, dear. Why don't we find you a more spacious room with a window or two, huh?” 

 

“Yes.” Annie stuttered, unsure what to make of the interaction she just had with a woman she had only ever viewed as hard and tactful, endorsing the horrific deaths of child after child for years and years. “Thank you.”

 

After a few long weeks, the dynamic between the two went from rather frigid to moderately lukewarm. Annie spent two full days painting her new room, which was located on the third floor and had two whole windows, a beautiful shade of sky blue. The room also came with her very own armoire which was next to empty, as well as a bed larger than her and her Mommaw’s old beds put together, with down pillows and a gorgeous quilt Annie would soon find out Mags had made herself. 

 

“I used to craft jewelry with my Mommaw.” Annie disclosed, doing her part to close the unavoidable gap between herself and someone who was one degree of separation away from being not only a total stranger but a wealthy, dangerous one at that.

 

“I know,” Mags informed her, deep chocolate eyes expressing fondness. “Ernie used to send me little trinkets from time to time, and always specified which ones were made by you. She was always very proud of you, said so in her letters. In fact,”

 

Mags held up a finger with a mischievous expression, and Annie watched her get up from her rocking chair in the living room and covertly head up the stairs to her bedroom. When she came back down, it was with a bracelet in hand. Annie immediately recognized it, a pearl and seashell beaded string with a silver clasp. It had been fashioned with the sort of pieces they used to incorporate very sparingly and only for their highest paying customers. It made sense to Annie that Mags belonged to this margin of people, most likely with a sum of money that must have paid for their food come fall and winter. She specifically remembered embellishing the bracelet with those expensive and hard-to-come-by pearls close to a year ago, and she had the realization that it was the first piece of jewelry she was tasked with making completely on her own.

 

Out of nowhere, Annie began to cry, globs of thick tears sprinkling down her rosy cheeks. Crestfallen, Mags slipped the bracelet into the front pocket of her day smock and slowly approached the girl, hands hovering for a moment, almost as if to warn her of the impending touch. The old woman then began comforting the young girl, pushing her brunette hair behind her ear, all the while making small shushing croons.

 

“I miss . . .” Annie dissolved into blubbers.

 

“I know, lass,” Mags soothed her the best she could, but there wasn't much she could do or say besides what she was already doing and saying. “I know it.”

 

The next day, Mags presented the 13 year old with a brand new jewelry making kit and, with it, dozens of cases of genuine jewels, from sapphire to ruby to emerald, including three different varieties of pearls. There were even a few seashells in the mix, freshly collected. She could tell because they were unwashed, little bits of sand stuck between the ripples and crevices. Annie stared at the display openly, disbelieving eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

 

“I figured we could send some homemade jewelry to a few of the other victors in the neighborhood.” Mags offered, her tone teetering on caution and excitement. She was walking on unmarked territory and Annie, not being used to such extravagant gifts, was completely at a loss. “I know for a fact my friend Catarina would be more than interested in your handiwork.” 

 

“I don’t know what to say,” Annie told her honestly, shaking her head in amazement, letting out a forceful breath which blew her bangs out of her face, split ends floating around her eyes and then landing back down against her nose.

 

Mags reached forward to pull her hair back behind her ear, much like the night previous. “I could help out, you know,” She adds, “If you’re willing to teach me how. Not sure if my old hands will be of any use, but I could give it a try.” 

 

There was an affectionate glint in her eyes as she spoke those words, filling Annie with a sense of hope that had been long since completely swept aside, left to rot in her Mommaw’s casket.

 

By way of response, she eagerly nodded her ascent.

 

-

 

Annie Cresta officially fell in love with Finnick Odair five years after the first time they met, and only after he was head over heels in love with her, which is a large part of the reason he was. 

 

She had been living with her godmother, Mags Ohanian, for all of two years when Finnick came to their house on a stiflingly hot summer evening with a half-zipped suitcase in hand and a grim expression gracing his absurdly beautiful features. Breezing through the foyer as if he owned the place, bag swinging along his side, Annie almost expected to hear the sound of a studio audience celebrating his presence if it hadn’t been for the darkness he brought with him like a storm cloud hanging over his head. His expression completely shifted when he laid eyes on her, though, morphing into something more reminiscent of how he looked in all the photos she saw from his zealous adventures in Capitol.

 

Mags was only a few paces behind him when he let out a friendly, “Well, hello there.” Annie was something close to starstruck, and Mags looked nothing but unimpressed.

 

“Annie, this is Finnick Odair." She introduced even though she knew there was no need to, the formality of the situation creeping into plain view. "He’s going to be staying with us for a little while.” 

 

Annie’s eyebrows lifted, but beyond that she had no visible reaction to the information. Mags was speaking with that deep Hunger Games mentor timbre that never ceased to make Annie feel a little uneasy. It was a side of her she rarely saw since Mags was good about not taking her work home with her. Obviously, this specific case was a glaring outlier. Annie looked on as the old woman turned to the golden boy with her lips stretched taught and her eyes narrowed sharply.

 

“Finnick,” Mags went on, motioning her hand towards the general direction Annie was sitting. “This is Annie Cresta. My goddaughter.”

 

As if taking a cue from someone behind a camera, Finnick sauntered up to her and shook her hand firmly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Annie Cresta,” he said smoothly, grinning a grin that some would describe as charming but only came off as disingenuous and forced to the District Four orphan. 

 

“And you, Finnick Odair.” She greeted him meekly, letting go of his hand a tad too soon and pulling it close to her chest for good measure, her trepidation hanging on her sleeve.

 

Finnick recoiled like she outright spat in his face, but immediately recovered from the supposed slip, swiftly regaining his somewhat haughty, vaguely Capitol-like stature.

 

"Well," Mags cut into the tension expertly, "Why don't I help you get settled in, ay, lad?" If she had been looking for it, Annie would have noticed the meaningful look the old woman passed on to her fellow victor, an invitation to unload not just his luggage. Switching gears, Mags turned to her goddaughter. "Annie, be a dear and put some coffee on, would you? I have a feeling it will do us some good tonight."

 

Annie promised to obey the order but didn't allow herself to tear her wary eyes from their unexpected guest for even a hairs breadth of a moment, tracking the pair of victors as they went up the stairs and locking on until were officially out of sight.

 

She remembered Finnick's games very well, having been old enough then for the memory of them to be fresh in her mind. She remember watching him spear and gut children with a trident. She remembered the cold look in his sea green eyes as he drained the life out of the other tributes again and again, the same bad feeling swimming around in her own guts. She remembered how the Capitol brushed off these instances during his victory tour in favor of fawning over his love life. With all of that in mind, she hoped against hope he wouldn't choose a room on the third floor of the mansion, restless at the mere idea of sleeping in close proximity with a ruthless killer like Finnick Odair.

 

Finnick only ever stayed at the mansion a week or two out of the month, which did very little to relax the 15 year old. Even when his actual person wasn't in attendance, his presence never left the house since he constantly set the Capitol tabloids aflame, nothing short of aggressively evident on their television in bright colors and harsh sounds. Mags tended to ignore the news coverage better than Annie ever could, mostly due to what she cracked up to be exposure. Either way, the dissonance between Finnick's character on and off screen was duly noted, and Annie figured not just by her.

 

Several months into this ordeal, Finnick came home late at night, busting through the front door with a bump. Mags had already been asleep for hours, unlikely to be awoken from the second floor, but Annie, who was working on a puzzle in the living room, resolutely resisted the urge to jump in fright. As if nothing was amiss, she went back to looking for the correct corner piece, hazel eyes squinting in search.

 

Finnick walked past the foyer but halted at the couch, taking in Annie’s crouched form happily sitting on her knees and fixed onto her task.

 

“You’re awake.” He stated as if she didn’t know, like he couldn’t consider the possibility of the little girl being a night owl. 

 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Annie replied. She didn’t elaborate on the reason why she couldn’t sleep. Every year when the prereaping ceremony approached, Annie suffered many sleepless nights. Mags kept telling her to ease her mind, promising that as long as she was under her roof, she was protected. Regardless, Annie couldn’t suppress the unpleasant sensation of butterflies as she lay awake in bed, counting the days until she grew out of reaping age and would finally be free of having her name dropped in the reaping pool.

 

Finnick stared blankly at the puzzle pieces strewen across the wide coffee table made of driftwood, stained and sanded into a flat surface.

 

“So you’re doing a puzzle?” He inquired, lips quirking up, such a childish, tame activity seeming so out of place in a victors home, even for an old woman like Mags.

 

“I am.” Annie said with a hint of indignation that brought Finnick’s sea green eyes up to meet her. They flashed with something that might have been guilt but it disappeared quickly.

 

Annie's eyes stayed trained on his for a moment more and then she focused her attention back to the missing piece. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Finnick deflate and slowly cross to the kitchen. When he came back into sight, he was holding a large bottle of dark brown liquid. Annie looked him up and down quizzically. 

 

“What?” Finnick barked, put off by the fact that he couldn't read her body language or discern why she had that look, since he was especially trained in reading body language and looks and the appropriate reaction he should be having in accordance with them.

 

Annie pointed to the liquor in his hand. “You’re underage.” She told him very matter of factly, as if it was glaringly obvious what had piqued her.

 

Finnick blanched, completely taken aback by the implication that such menial laws still applied to him.

 

“And you’re nosy.” He eventually retorted, taking a swig from the bottle to prove a point.

 

As he stalked away, Annie bit her lip and squeezed out the next words in a rush.

 

“Mind sharing?”

 

 Her voice came out more controlled than she figured it would and she held his gaze when he slowly turned on his heel to face her. Now it was his turn to look quizzical, but Annie was quick to explain herself.

 

"I heard it sometimes helps people sleep."

 

She was well aware that he must have snatched the stuff from Mag’s personal cabinet of which Annie wasn't allowed to touch, so she figured she had as much of a right to the liquor as Finnick did, being two reaping-age Four kids graciously taken in by the sweet and surly Mags Ohanian.

 

Finnick looked at her for a long while, scrutinizing, weighing the costs and benefits of sharing a drink with this strange, bold, completely unlikable Four orphan. On the one hand, Mags would have his head if she found out, and corrupting others with his amoral tendencies wasn't high on his docket of things he enjoyed doing. On the other hand, it would be extremely entertaining to witness this tiny slip of girl get tipsy, or even outright drunk, after a few good gulps and she would definitely go straight to bed once she got to that point. 

 

With a smug look on his face, Finnick meandered over to her, arm outstretched to pass the heavy glass bottle. Annie smiled, clearly pleased with herself, and took a swig just like she watched him do not a minute ago. She gagged immediately, hand coming up to cover her lips, coughing around the gasoline sloshing about in her mouth and Finnick crouched to take the bottle from her, patting her on the back, laughing all the while. To Annie's credit, she swallowed it down with only a minimal amount ending up spilled down her chin. Clearing her throat, she groaned in distaste.

 

"What is that even made out of?" She asked, bewildered, wiping her face with her sleeve, cheeks burning despite the front she continuously tried to put on.

 

"Pure sin." Finnick cheerfully replied. "And various grains."

 

“I feel like I just drank poison,” She complained, giving the bottle that the golden boy was now chugging unabashedly in front of her a look of disgust. Finnick eyed her deliberately and winked, damn sea green eyes glittering with mischief. She shook her head, and a small giggle worked its way out of her throat against her will.

 

He hummed, lowering the bottle. “You get used to it after a while,” He promised, pink tongue flicking over his perfect lips and Annie pretended not to stare. Sighing, she set her hands down on the coffee table, back to scanning the scattered pieces.

 

“You haven’t made a move since I got here.” Finnick pointed out, not sounding like he really cared either way, finally taking a seat on the couch adjacent to the table.

 

“I can’t find this last corner piece,” Annie said by way of explanation, fingers rifling through the piles of cardboard resting in the ridges of the driftwood.

 

Finnick tutted in mild displeasure, leaning over to observe the hole in the base of the puzzle. Eventually, he sat back, and Annie decided to ignore him until she heard him make an “aha” noise. He reached under the coffee table, presenting the missing piece to Annie in a perfectly manicured hand. Taking the initiative, he got on his haunches and placed the piece in its rightful place.

 

He didn't anticipate, however, that the action would cause his navy blue jacket sleeve to ride up his forearm and give the orphan a clear view of the reason he put the jacket on in the first place. He realized what he did wrong as soon as he heard her gasp. 

 

“What happened to your wrist?” Annie exclaimed, unmanicured hand reaching towards his sleeve on instinct. 

 

He whipped his arm back quickly, but it wasn’t quick enough to prevent her from figuring that the bloody, swollen abrasions rimming his wrist were clearly the markings of rope burn.

 

"Oh, that's nothing at all," Finnick laughed, and his behavior suddenly transformed from the typical sour she had become accustomed to into sickeningly sweet, as if nothing could be wrong in the world and that particular disposition unsettled her more than anything else. When she seemed unconvinced, he put a hand on her shoulder, putting a patronizing but all the while good-natured lilt in his voice. "Trust me, sweetheart, I've survived worse." And then he smiled, bright, too-white, too-straight teeth peaking beneath his stretched lips.

 

"But it must still _hurt_ ," Annie argued, flustered, eyes darting across his face in an effort to figure him out. The fact that she wouldn’t budge on this matter must have been obvious on her face because Finnick’s smile faltered, and he sighed, pinching his nose. "We can go look in the medicine cabinet, I'm sure we have a some kind of salve or something that can—"

 

"Forget it," Finnick snapped, stopping her dead in her tracks. "Seriously, it's not a big deal.” There was something unimaginably dark looming in his eyes, from what she could see, anyway. He wouldn’t look at her. 

 

He got up from his seat, fixing his navy blue lapel and cuff links, his hands trembling slightly which Annie wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t staring at them intently. He grabbed the liquor almost as an afterthought.

 

"Who did that to you?" She asked in a hushed tone, eyeline floating somewhere around his waist.

 

"Nobody who you should be concerned with,” He assured her, biting and harsh, and by the tone of his voice she got the feeling that it was final. “It’s for the best if you just put it out of your mind, Annie Cresta."

 

The use of her full name threw her, and she gave him one last, conflicted look. He shook his head as if to clear it and left without another word.

 

Once he was gone, having trudged up to his room on the second floor with a heavy step, Annie decided there were more pressing, complex puzzles for her to solve.

 

Annie asked Mags about the marks on Finnick’s wrist the next time he left for the Capitol, five endless days later. Within those five days the pair had avoided each other as a rule, and Mags had raised her brow at the cold gust of air between the two but didn’t say boo about it. However, Mags didn’t have that luxury when her goddaughter, who wrung her hands nervously instead of crafting jewelry along with her, inquired about the golden boy’s strange behavior and stranger injuries. 

 

“You should keep such things out of your mind, lass,” Mags eventually replied, adjusting herself in her seat at the kitchen table, the only tell that she was uncomfortable with the subject matter and it only served to confuse the orphan more. 

 

“That’s exactly what he told me,” Annie huffed, crossing her arms, gesticulating in frustration.

 

“Then you should heed the advice,” Mags told her pointedly, leveling eye to eye with the girl squirming in her seat across from her. She then turned her attention back to stringing the anklet she was working on with emerald and quartz gems. “What Finnick does in his personal life isn’t any of your business. I suggest you don’t poke your nose in places it doesn’t belong, especially where that boy is concerned.”

 

There was a short pause, Annie going over the old woman’s words in her head, unsure what to make of them.

 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Annie complained, rifling through the assorted jewels in the case in front of her. “I’ll never understand you victors. The things you say are so damn cryptic, and it’s almost like you enjoy keeping me in the dark about things. He was hurt, Mags!”

 

“He’s an adult, Annie.” Mags sighed.

 

“No, he’s not!” The girl came back at her immediately. “I’m only two years younger than he is, you know! You think I’m an adult?” She points her finger indignantly, knowing she’s right, but it doesn’t amount to much in this kitchen. The look Mags gives her next could cut glass. 

 

“I don’t need a semantics lesson, girlie.” Mags said evenly, but Annie knew her well enough to understand that her patience was running dangerously thin. “What I do need is for you to finish those earrings. I’ll want something in season to wear during this years’ games. Sort of a good luck charm if it's made by your hands, keep our tributes safe.” 

 

As Mags undoubtedly expected, a brief mention of the games shut Annie up quite effectively. She only briefly grumbled her dissent, then went back to work on the earrings in front of her, weighing down the silver hooks with diamond teardrops to accent the seagull feathers. 

 

When she begrudgingly presented them to Mags, pushing them across the table and into her line of sight, the old woman gave her a hum of approval. Annie wasn’t satisfied, though, not even close, and she spent the next week stewing in her discontent.

 

Finnick's eighteenth birthday is broadcasted on late night television. There's a large, burly Capitol man with raven black hair and jewels encrusted on his head on the golden boy's arm, and a glass filled with a liquor similar in color to the one he and Annie shared on that strange night in his hand. The Capitol was celebrating his coming of age. Annie scoffed, and held onto the image of the rude, waspish Finnick that only she ever got to see. 

 

For the first time in a while, Annie wondered about Finnick's family. They were just down the way in the Victor's village, all his bounds of kin going in and out of that house on the daily, all receiving his pension but starkly missing their benefactor. Of course, there had to be a pretty good reason he started living with Mags instead, and Annie had never pushed it. 

 

The reaping for the 69th Hunger Games came and went, two volunteers taking up the post for this year but Annie could sense the fear on them even if it couldn’t be seen. She shivered when she watched the recap, Mags shaking the hand of her male tribute firmly, feather earrings laying against her pressed, white hair. 

 

With Mags off mentoring the boy, an eighteen year old career by the name of Drake Leer, and Finnick off who knows where and who knows why in the Capitol, Annie was stuck spending a long bout of time between empty walls in an empty mansion, entertaining herself by the hour. Other kids her age were on holiday from games school, but Mags saw no point in enrolling Annie in such a place when she had already promised the orphan that she would be spared from the games. 

 

Catarina Degas, _call me Kitty_ she had purred to her the day she came to visit the mansion with a green bean casserole in hand as thanks for the jewelry, was taking a reprieve from mentoring this year due to her son’s decreasing health. The new mentor, winner of the 48th Selma Trigorin who Annie had heard rumors about being a raging alcoholic, used to be beautiful but now had skin that sagged and eyes that had dark purple circles ringing them. Annie couldn’t imagine why she would choose to mentor when she'd spent so many years holed up in her house with the lock secured behind her, never answering the door that time Mags insisted Annie bring her a necklace made of seashells and twine.

 

One evening which Annie was spending watching the tributes interviews, hosted by green-haired and browed Caesar Flickerman, there was a knock at the mansion door. Wondering who could be here at this hour, Annie peeled herself from the couch and trekked into the foyer.

 

When she opened the door she came face to face with a worse for wear Catarina Degas, blood-shot, wild, puffy blue eyes boring into her own, chapped lips taut in anticipation of the word-vomit that would come spilling from them.

 

"I know Mags isn't here but you have to let me in this instant she has something of ours and I need to get a hold of it, you understand, I'll just need to head up to her bedroom and I'll be out in a jiff—"

 

Before Annie could even consider opening the door she was bombarded with the force of Catarina's manic energy, pushing past her into the foyer in one fell swoop and heading up the stairs quick as lighting.

 

"Miss Kitty, wait!" Annie shouted after her, nerves immediately fried, a kind of guilt creeping up her spine that happens when she knows she did something that she wasn't supposed to. Letting people into Mags' room is unacceptable without the old woman ever needing to tell her as much, even when that person is a known close friend of hers, especially when that person looked as unhinged as Catarina did.

 

Annie followed her until they made it to lavender walls, the room smelling of sandalwood and vanilla and kept tidy if it weren't for Kitty rifling around, rapidly making things in disarray, searching for who knows what. 

 

"You can't be in here!" Annie tried to protest, but the victor before her was clearly on a mission, not to be interrupted by a meek, fifteen year old orphan.

 

"Dammit, you old hag, where did you put it?" Catarina hissed in frustration, opening and closing drawers carelessly. She moved on to the underneath of Mags bed, pulling out the boxes of old clothes and trinkets.

 

"Stop!" Annie hollered, fed up with the confusion. "Just relax for one second and tell me what's going on!" 

 

The demand was clear and Catarina finally looked up, scared, though not of her, of something else. She slumped onto her knees, forlorn.

 

"My son is dead." Kitty informed her, damask, monotone. 

 

Annie blinked and her shoulders rolled back, recomposing herself. "I'm so sorry." She attempted to console her, but it was in vain, and she would soon hear why.

 

"President Snow poisoned him." The victor said with more heat, fingers flexing, itching for whatever item she was looking for in Mags' bedroom, or maybe something more deadly. "I just got off the phone with him. He told me how tragic it is that Four keeps catching marlin with such high levels of mercury, and how funny, that I've been rubbing elbows with the anarchists in the Capitol, and our not-so-secret meetings. . ."  She trailed off, realizing what she was saying and who she was saying it to. She shut her mouth with a click of her jaw, started again. "Do you have any idea where your godmother would be keeping a comm device, it's black and small, looks like a walkie talkie. . .?"

 

Annie stared at the woman before her in shock, reeling with a wave of information she was unable to wrap her head around much less respond to. 

 

Catarina gets up, body like a rag doll, weak and limp. She lifts her head.

 

"Look. You can't tell anyone about this, but a whole lot of lives depend on finding that device." The two of them met eyes, and the girl looked away, brow drawn in confoundment. Kitty looked as of she'd given up on all pretense, but then, it seemed she'd given up on much, much more. "Are you gonna help me or not? Because I'm not leaving without it."

 

Annie swallowed hard, hands trembling, stuck in a decision she didn't know how to make.

 

They ended up tearing the room apart, tearing Annie's insides along with it. She knew she shouldn't have been letting this happen, and that the victor she was assisting was clearly on a different plane, but there was something earnest in her confession and a formidable storm looming overhead. If nothing else, Catarina was one of the only victors to give her any information about anything regarding what really went on in the Capitol. If it was true, Annie could finally begin understand her godmother's hesitation and numerous efforts to shield her from the reality of her world.

 

"Is there any other place you could think where Mags would hide something?" Kitty's voice is strained, "Any place at all."

 

Annie didn't have to think long about it. Silently, she lead Catarina to the room next door with the yellow walls. They found it in a cardboard box, half opened, next to a teddy bear and a framed photo of an ultrasound. Kitty wept tears of joy and then wept tears of something entirely different. 

 

Annie didn't tell her godmother about it, as much as she wanted to, as much as she couldn't keep it inside, all of the questions and horror. Catarina had essentially begged her not to tell as soul, stating how integral it was that no one know about her son's cause of death or her unannounced visit or the comm device, repeating over and over that blood could be shed from just one slip. 

 

A year passes, and when Annie is reaped for the 70th Hunger Games, she thinks to herself, _what slipped?_

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, everyone! sorry for the late update and the total bummer ending. I realized I needed to make an epilogue, so I'm adding that as the fourth chapter. thanks so much for reading, and comments literally make my week!


	4. Mags II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i said i was going to do an epilogue and I lied, I'm just going to do three more chapters because there's more I want to say. let me know if that's a yay or nay down in the comments, but either way here's a chapter about Mags again except it's story instead of just backstory. ENJOY

 

 

 

"Annalise Cresta!"

  
Hearing that name announced, each damning syllable resounding through the loud speakers as it is excitedly squawked out of Capitol escort Polonius Sterlingshire's puffy, coral-lipsticked mouth, Mags' first instinct is to stand up in her designated chair and volunteer to take the girl's place. Well aware of how her old bones would groan in protest to such exuberance and how her hanging her heart on her sleeve would only lead to backfire, she remains seated. Her next impulse, an instinct that marks her experience, is to turn to the chair beside her which year by year seats her fellow mentor and primary confidant.

  
Finnick Odair, who President Snow has called upon to take up the post this year after Selma Trigorin dropped the ball in the 69th, already has his eyes locked on her when she finds the presence of mind to meet them. His jaw is unhinged in wordless dismay, glowing sea green eyes the size of saucers and they stare at one another, their tongues frozen in confoundment. He's searching her face, seeking something she is unable to provide in this moment: model behavior.

  
Mags suddenly redirects her attention to the section of the square marked off for 18 year old females, in which every other row is littered with a handful of strong, capable careers. She holds her breath, scanning the sea of district Four heads for any kind of activity, hoping against hope that their would be a scuffle or a raised hand, listening for a strong, proud voice to carry amongst the crowd and volunteer as tribute.

  
This hope dies as quickly as it comes about.

  
And so Annie, her shoulders hunched and eyes blinking rapidly, takes an agonizing trip up the steps of the stage to meet Polonius and take her spot as the female tribute of the 70th Hunger Games. Mags feels Finnick's fingertips brush her knuckles discreetly. She takes his hand at once and squeezes it much too tightly, looking once again at her golden boy so she doesn't have to look over at her crumpled, heartbroken, as-good-as-dead little girl.

  
Finnick's eye must catch the red dot on the of the camera closing in on them because, in a flash, his face lights up, brows lifting in mock appraisal. He's nodding as the audience applauds their newest tribute. He pulls away from Mags' firm grip so he can clap in tandem with the rest of their District. With a textbook mischievous smirk on his lips, he leans in to whisper against her white, pressed hair.

  
"I'm so sorry, Mags. I . . . can't imagine how hard this is for you." She thinks that's all he can muster up to say before he admits, helplessly, hushed, "I wish there was something I could do."

  
Suddenly recollecting herself, Mags lets the pain wash off of her face and replaces it with objective indifference. Pulling back, she nods to him curtly, lips in a line, jaw set firmly. Finnick winks obnoxiously, doing his part to convince the audience that nothing could be amiss. He then begins to fully engage the camera, eyebrows waggling in it's direction, placing his index finger on his sly smile. Mags is grateful for the pull of focus when she turns to witness her Annie sobbing onstage for all of District Four to see.

  
Guilt seizes Mags like a vice around her throat, but her fury follows as a close second, boiling the blood in her veins. Annie hasn't taken a tessera since her first two years of being reaping age. The odds have always been massively in the girl's favor for as long as she's been living under Mags roof. That is, if you didn't account for the danger of being within one degree of separation to the venomous President Snow. There was only so much she would ever be able to do to protect her children from the claws of their reigning overlord. She'd stopped trying with Finnick years ago, ever since he garnered more popularity with the Capitol and it's most entitled citizens than she had sway with it's most influential figureheads. It's true that he belonged to her just as much as he belonged to the people, and there was no denying that, above all, it was President Snow who owned the both of them.

  
But Annie wasn't a victor, wasn't one of Snow's playthings to begin with, which was the primary reason Mags never bothered to worry. She had been given the rare opportunity to treasure her girl in a way that didn't have anything to do with the Hunger Games. Only now did she realize how much she's taken that for granted.

  
Annie's reaping is no coincidence, Mags is sure of that much. In fact, watching Polonius tuck the slips of paper in his breast pocket and lead the children backstage, the old woman has no doubt in her soul that every one of those slips in that first bowl has the name Annalise Cresta inscribed on it in blood.

  
One of the questions that tugs at Mags is 'why now?' She scrolls through her past sins, wracking her brain for whatever terrible transgression she could have committed in the past year that would warrant this kind of punishment. She'd gotten her tribute to final eight last year, so it couldn't very well be a drop in her quality of work. She'd done the best she could to keep the tumultuous Selma in line, the constant reek of perfumed Capitol booze permeating past a twenty foot radius of her pores, an eternal case of the spins inhibiting the poise necessary to represent their district and coach their tributes, but there was only so much Mags could do while she tried to keep her boy breathing in the arena. So then what could it possibly be, if not Mags' folly?

  
When she feels Finnick's hand once again, a reassuring squeeze on her knee, the thoughts that skit across her mind shift from addled to accusatory. _Is there something you know that I don't?_ She wants to ask him. _Are you the one who put my girl in danger?_

  
She bites her tongue for reasons other than they were still being filmed, still witnessing the reaping ceremony as it came to a close and were just about to hop on a train headed straight for the Capitol where there are eyes and ears at every corner. Mostly, though, it’s that she can't imagine Finnick would keep something of that magnitude from her, despite his aptitude for masquerade. He's always been honest with her about everything he's willing to discuss, Capitol excursions not included. It's not as if Mags wants to hear about them, either, even if she thinks he should be speaking to someone about it, to let some of it off his chest instead of continuing to pile the weight on stone by stone. He's been under her roof for close to two years, and has been her tribute for more than four. After watching his every move in the arena for two straight weeks, Mags is positive she would have noticed some kind of indication in his behavior. She's always been able to read him better than anyone.

  
“Please give a warm hand to your tributes for the 70th Hunger Games,” Polonius gestures to her girl who’s quaking in her reaping shoes, “Annalise Cresta,” then he lays a palm on the boy’s shoulder, a dark skinned and decently broad Career, “and Telletian Wellwood!”

  
The crowd claps uproariously and Mags joins in, chin high. She couldn’t afford to be sorrowful, especially at a moment like this, imagining President Snow is watching with his morning tea, holding his breath, drinking in any inkling of pain Mags lets bleed through.

  
It's customary for the male and female tribute of the Hunger Games to get a five minute farewell period with their family members and loved ones at the tail end of every reaping ceremony. Since Annie's only family member was doubling as her mentor this year, and the other unofficial member of the Ohanian household was mentoring as well, she is immediately swept up by Peacekeepers and loaded onto the train at a moment's notice.

  
Finnick and Mags walk side by side to their car in silence, dread emanating through the air they breathe.

  
When they find her, cradling her knees on the plush, silk sofa in the lounge car, Mags is immediately compelled to sit at her side. The old woman wants nothing more than to stroke the salt-sprayed, brunette locks behind her ear like she always did when Annie got very upset at home, but Mags' hands do nothing but hover.

  
"You promised me." Is all the girl says, throat raw from crying.

  
"I know." Mags mutters. "I know I did, lass."

  
"So you were lying about me being safe from the games?

  
Mags' heart sinks ever further. "I thought I could protect you from this. I thought I could keep you safe." There's a long stretch of quiet, and tears drip down Mags' face otherwise sober face. "That was foolish of me."

  
Just then, the male tribute is escorted on board, a peace keeper at his back all but shoving him through the door of the train car. His eyes are dry but his shoulders are tense, fist clenched, pulsating an unmistakable kind of fear. Telletian Wellwood. Finnick is on him before he can take another step into the lounge car.

  
"Telletian. I'm Finnick Odair, pleased to meet you." A five-hundred watt smile, an outreached hand that the boy stares at for a split second before he shakes it. "I'm going to be your mentor this games. Why don't I take you to your room, and we'll get to know each other. There's a few things we ought to discuss."

  
The girls watch them leave down the hall.

  
"So me and him are supposed to kill each other." Annie says, bereft, borderline unfeeling.

  
Mags prepares to reply but stops herself, realizing she can't begin to argue with that claim.

  
A couple of hours later, both of the tributes are spending their precious remaining hours of their life holed up in their living quarters, and Finnick and Mags start arguing the moment they hear the doors shut. At this point they're scrounging for things to have spats over, things like which style of combat to prioritize in training and what the best way to garner sponsors before the games is, anything to mask the sound of the weeping they can hear through the walls of Annie's locked cabin. Their hushed, heated words spring back and forth with a distracted urgency. 

  
"I don't understand why you think we can keep it secret at all." Finnick whisper-shouts, pacing back and forth between the desk and the side seating. He's springing with fervor, professional determination coupled with trepidatious rationale. Mags is seated on the couch, hands still and lifeless, and with every burst of energy that possesses the boy, it is concurrently sucked out of the old woman. "It's not like we can hide it, especially where our District is concerned. They're gonna know she's your goddaughter."

  
Mags sighs impatiently. "She had no living family worth a damn when her grandmother died, the two were all but secluded when she was growing up so no one in town's barely seen her face, especially since I took her in." She tells him evenly, folding her hands in her lap. "I did my part to keep that girl off the radar, and guess what thanks I got for it."

  
"But if we strategize, approach it like Annie's the new you, a regular Mags Ohanian 2.0, we might have a shot at getting her out alive!" Finnick pushes, voice rising at the tail end of his sentence and making Mags wince. Finnick seems barely apologetic when he bares down on the desk. "Look. I'm not saying we should place all our bets on this, but you and I both know that if we sell this thing right, it might be what saves her in the end."

  
"Singling out and grooming children for the Hunger Games is prohibited by law, don't you realize that?" Mags points out. "If the Capitol thinks I've been training a seaside orphan who happened to be reaped before her prime, we could end up facing even more problems than we're starting with."

  
Finnick deflates, and sits down at the desk with his head in his hands. 

  
"Not to mention she's actually had no training whatsoever," Mags pipes up, eyes narrow. "No sense putting any kind of target on her back when she can't defend herself in the arena, when it comes time to be _Mags 2.0_."

  
"I see your point." Finnick replies, tired, short.

  
The kettle whistles at the counter across the way, and Mags takes a moment to gather her skirt before she lifts herself up and shuffles over to make her tea.

  
"And I see yours." She eventually admits, pulling a steel mug from the cupboard. "There's no way we'll get through this games without everyone figuring out she belongs to me, making this whole charade that much more difficult." She meets his eyes, deep brown meeting clear green. "Which is what Snow is betting on."

  
The young mentors face darkens, and he rises from his chair and approaches the old woman, close enough so he can speak without being heard. "So we're here now." He announces flatly. "What is all this really about?"

  
Mags stirs her tea for a moment, simultaneously stirring in her thoughts. She looks back up to him, expression frank. "I don't know." Then she passes him, retaking her seat on the couch.

  
Finnick follows her step by step, confusion worrying his brow. "What do you mean?" He sits beside her, analyzing her face. "You mean to tell me this is just a fluke?"

  
"You tell me."

  
There. Mags said it. The question that had been nagging at her all day, the one that kept her from thinking straight, kept her guarded around her fellow mentor. Finnick hadn't noticed anything off because the world was already upside down and Mags was barely holding on by her finger nails, coolness crumbling as the clock ticked.

  
"You think—" Finnick stops, then sits back, eyes darting across the floor. Mags shuts her eyes, a pang of regret clenching her gut. Suddenly, the boy jumps to his feet, circling the floor with his steps, chewing on a cuticle. Eventually, he lets out a burst of laughter. "No." He outright denies. "No. I mean, do you actually think that if I shit the bed, he would take one of yours instead of just taking one of mine? There are plenty of other people he has to hang over my head."

"How many of those people are reaping age?" Mags shoots back, already knowing the answer.

  
Finnick is taken aback, looking at her as if he didn't recognize her. His voice gets very, very quiet. "If it _was_ me, he wouldn't have given _those people_ the chance to fight for their lives. He would have them slaughtered before I even got the chance to think about saving them."

  
The words are biting, but Mags isn't finished, not until it all made sense. "Maybe it was something you told her, something that the Capitol doesn't want her knowing. Something could have slipped . . ." She theorizes, frantic, desperation rising in her chest. "Can you think of anything like that?"

  
"She avoids me like the plague, so we're not exactly telling each other our secrets." Finnick huffs, testy.

  
"Well, it has to be something!" Mags shouts, fingers at her temple, frustration overthrowing her usual equilibrium.

  
A small, weak voice comes from the opening of the hall, and both victors turn their heads at once to find it's source.

  
"Kitty." Annie had croaked.

  
Finnick is the first to blurt out, " _What?_ " while the shock still washes through Mags.

  
Annie clears her throat, not daring to lift her eyes from a spot on the floor. "Kitty Degas. Catarina Degas." She clarifies. "She's the slip."

  
In a moment's notice, the three of them shut themselves away in Mags' cabin, assuring that they are out of earshot of both Telletian and Polonius. Annie all but vomits out every detail regarding what happened with Catarina Degas last year, disjointed and panicked but it could not come out clearer to Mags. Her heart plummets into her shoes.

  
Mags could attempt to blame Catarina for her careless actions, but Annie, reasonably distressed and scrambled out of her wits, turns on Mags for her negligence. Finnick stays carefully silent, but Annie is furious enough for the both of them, demanding to know exactly what the walkie-talkie Kitty was searching for actually was, and why Mags would ever dream of keeping such treasonous contraband in their house.

  
"Hey, Cresta," Finnick cut in, brisk and carefully controlled, before Mags get's the chance to reply. "We might want to change the subject here soon."

  
Flabbergasted, Annie splutters for a few moments before intelligible words started to come out. "Wha-What? What do you mean, I—"

  
"He means," Mags tacks on, voice hoarse, and she tries coughing some of the gruffness away. "That we're not the only ones who could be listening."

  
"Ever heard the old adage, 'the walls have eyes?'" Finnick asks, toothy grin stitched on his face, but the two girls see through it immediately. "Well, I don't know so much about that, but, in my experience, most of them have a pretty good set of ears."

  
The old woman watches the dawning come about her goddaughter’s face, the puzzle pieces at last clicking together and revealing a spectacularly ugly picture, a picture Mags fought hard for her to never have to see.

  
“I can’t believe any of this,” Annie marvels, hands coming up to clutch her the hair laying over her ears. "You told me I was safe. But I've never been safe, have I?"

  
Tears leak from Annie's eyes as they search her godmother and now mentor's face, and Mags recognizes the look she's giving her. Annie is at a loss, despite the wealth of knowledge that has been bestowed upon her. She needs guidance. Most of all, she needs Mags to say something, something encouraging and comforting, something to make it all okay.

  
But there is nothing to be said. Not without being heard.

  
And that alone is too much for Annie to handle.

  
The tribute departs to her own room without another word, sliding the door shut hard behind her, and neither of the two victors have to will or the advice to follow.

  
"Some mentors we are." Finnick says drily.

  
The whole night on the train is spent stewing in discontent by all parties, excluding Polonius, who's Capitol upbringing doesn't allow for many sleepless nights.

  
Mags is on her fourth cup of tea and Finnick is lamenting over his untouched black coffee. They have been sitting in silence for most of the ride after the confrontation with Annie, and neither of them have considered retiring to their chambers, too afraid to be alone or to leave the other alone with their thoughts.

  
"I'm sorry that I blamed you." Mags finally says aloud, now that the gravity of the situation has finally settled in her gut. "I've spent so long trying to protect her, ever since I took her in. I didn't even hardly remember about. . ." She trails off.

  
She hasn't spoken of the sparks of rebellion in years, that close knit group of victors conferring with District Thirteen long, long forgotten ever since she was blessed with a child to look after, something she had given up hope for decades ago. Now the blessing she had been giving was burning to the ground, just like Thirteen had, and just like all of those not so secret plans indefinitely will.

  
"We're going to get her out of that arena, Mags." Finnick says fiercely, scooting to be by her side on the couch and grabbing her hand. "I don't know how yet, but we will. I'll make sure of it."

  
Mags smiles sadly, and brushes her knuckle against his cheek, cupping it. "You have your own tribute to attend to, lad." She reminds him. "This is my burden to bear, and my burden alone. We are not going to give Snow an inch this games, no matter how much effort he goes to ensure our failure."

  
Finnick seems unconvinced, argumentative, but Mags shushes him with more of her own words.

  
"Promise me you'll fight for that boy. Promise me you'll stay out of this."

  
"I can't." Finnick confesses.

  
Mags sighs, shakes her head. Tears blur her vision. "You must." She struggles with her words, mind becoming somewhat unclear. "It's your . . . duty. To. . ." She reaches for her tea, tries to take a sip, but her hands are shaking and her tongue feels like sandpaper.

  
"There's ways we can work around it." Finnick combats resolutely, hell-bent. "I can figure something else out. I'm not going to let him to this to you, not without a fight. I'll talk to my connections in the Capitol and—"

  
"No." Mags ears start to ring. She can't quite concentrate on his words anymore, and they all start to blend together, only sounds without any real meaning. She takes a breath, and promptly excuses herself to the restroom with a simple gesture, patting his leg and holding up a finger.

  
When she slides the bathroom door shut behind her, the automatic flourescent light that come on sting at her eyes and her vision blurs in consequence. She catches herself on the sink, breathing shallowly.

  
Her mind is racing with images of her goddaughter, imagining what she might look like with blood on her face or a spear through her belly. She imagines Annie with a trident in her hands, sweet, sweet Annie murdering children for sport. Mags realizes that her own hands have gone completely numb. She starts to lose her balance, toes tingling with lack of feeling.

  
Exhaustion hits her like a wave, threatening to consume her, and her muscles twitch involuntarily. Her vision is now completely done for. She suddenly thinks to Finnick in the other room, and tries to call out for his help, but her tongue doesn't work, and it's a wordless, guttural sound that comes out of her mouth instead.

  
All at once, Mags collapses to the ground, numb legs unable to hold her weight any longer, Avox-like tongue unable to do her any good.

  
All she can think of is Annie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed reading about how mags had her stroke. yayy. very happy here in the hunger games fandom. let me know if you guys are interested in what happens next and i'll pump out the next chapter as quickly as possible. thanks for reading!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments are always appreciated!


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